


If I could Help

by Impala_Cherry_Trickster



Series: The Holmes Boys [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Eurus being a good sister, Feelings, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jim Moriarty in Sherlock's Mind Palace, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Poor Molly, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Season/Series 04, Protective Mycroft, Rape/Non-con Elements, Secrets, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock's Violin, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-19 02:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 20,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Cherry_Trickster/pseuds/Impala_Cherry_Trickster
Summary: Eurus knows something that Mycroft doesn't, that Sherlock doesn't want to admit. But with Moriarty breaking out of the prison in his mind, and Eurus being the only solution he can see, what will Sherlock do?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Series: The Holmes Boys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627030
Comments: 63
Kudos: 98





	1. Breakdown

Sherlock adjusted his tie, calming himself as the lift descended. After all, it was not the first time he had made this trip, nor the second. And he knew, without a doubt, that his brother and friend were watching from the safety of the London Office, determined to make sure that Eurus did not manage to affect Sherlock in any way. Despite the explanations from Mycroft, and the visit at Christmas with their parents, Eurus had yet to speak to any of them in any way, other than the small smiles she would give when they played the violin together.

He was not used to being an older brother. He wasn’t used to the emotions, the things he always prided himself in shoving down, being exposed to someone smart like Eurus. Mycroft wasn’t quick enough to understand all of Sherlock’s emotions, something he had been thankful for over the past years, but Eurus was no doubt aware of everything in his life. And some things, he didn’t need his brother to find out.

Jim Moriarty had been here, on this very island, Sherlock following in his footsteps. That was another thing that made it momentarily hard to conceal the slight shudder that ran, from his spine to the hand holding the duffel bag. Somewhere, deep in the Mind Palace where Moriarty was locked away, he could hear him calling. It was an occasional thing, he could handle it.

The door opened, glass revealed in front, Eurus calmly seated on the bed. She didn’t make a sound as he moved, placing down the bag and removing the case. Re-written, out of memories, for Eurus had been that bad. She’d killed his childhood-friend, tried to kill John, and Sherlock couldn’t forget that. But he also understood what it was like, on a much simpler level, to be too smart for those around you. Eurus had nobody that could compete with her, Sherlock didn’t even come close, but he could see it in her eyes that she could, to a certain distance, empathise.

He unlocked the case, lifted the violin and moved to the glass, ignoring the three-foot limit that everyone else still did. She was clever, brilliantly so, but he wasn’t afraid. Not really. Or maybe he was, it was so confusing, his mind had been a mess ever since he first visited Sherrinford. The Mind Palace was becoming a place of retreat more and more often, his brother had been trying to get him to talk, apparently Mycroft wanted to apologise.

Sherlock knew his brother had been shocked when he had stood up for Mycroft, especially when their parents learnt of Eurus being alive. The detective rose the violin, settled it on his shoulder, quickly tuning it before pausing. He did try to vary what he played, for some reason he felt the urge to impress the enigma in front of him, but today, he stuck to safe territory. The note was sweet, no longer wobbling like it had when his hand shook. Eurus smiled up at him, the brightest he had seen, and moved across the room.

It was like a shark in a tank, he mused, picking up the tempo as his sister joined in. Why had Mycroft not adopted the music that the younger siblings had? So many thoughts, whirling inside his mess in a jumble, things he felt he could not control. Jim Moriarty, from somewhere deep in his mind, cackled at the sight.

He broke. It was not the first time Sherlock had lost concentration, but it was the first in front of his sister. The bow dropped to his side, chest suddenly tightening in a way that it had been when he was alone at night, recalling the voice of his tormentor playing over and over. His hand shook, and although he tried to stop it, he knew Eurus had picked up on it. Turning away from the glass, a mixture of disappointed and ashamed, Sherlock went to put the violin away.

‘Sherlock.’ Eurus sounded like he remembered, slightly less confident, perhaps. He froze, turning slowly, watched her gaze drift over him. He knew what she was doing, had done it before to thousands of people, deducing what was wrong with him. Unlike Mycroft, she would find something as well, her eyes lingering on his fingers, probably noting the scar at the base of his wrist, the way his body tensed when she did so.

‘I know what he did.’ Her words struck so deep, hitting him like a brick to the face, an analogy he had never wished to try out. Every time she spoke, every time her gaze hit his, he could see it in her face. She knew. He knew. They both had a secret, and it was killing Sherlock, and now someone else knew. Someone he was supposed to be strong in front of, picking him apart. He understood why John sometimes got annoyed at him when he deduced things, it was terrifying.

‘Moriarty, I could tell, I…’

‘Stop.’ Was that his voice? It sounded broken, hurt, like he was moments from crying. Which was a weird thing, his fingers rising, touching his cheeks. Damp, he was crying, and Eurus actually looked like she cared. Empathy? His heartrate was picking up, body going into the obvious symptoms of a panic attack, feeling the urge to flee from the woman in front.

‘Sherlock, breathe.’ Eurus was moving, closer to the glass, hand raising to it like they had done that first time. The command hit something deep, this woman had conspired with Moriarty, knowing what the man had done to him. The secret, the thing he worked to keep from everyone, even Mycroft. Especially Mycroft. He had been the youngest, the worst Holmes child, and now there was another.

‘He’s dead.’ Sherlock snapped, as if it made everything better. Eurus cocked her head, a curious expression crossing her face, and the detective realised she was waiting for him to figure out the next step. He did as she wanted, breathed in deeply, pulled back every emotion that he possibly could. It was then that he recalled that both John and Mycroft were watching this, listening. Her eyes flicked to the camera, as if she had read his thoughts.

‘How do you do it?’ He asked, finally, once the weight began to relieve itself. He was asking her for help, something that was a risk, and even Eurus looked surprised. He took a step towards her, remembering Mycroft’s lectures about touching the glass, saying that if she were anywhere near it, he should be behind the line.

‘You want to forget?’ She inquired, voice monotone, like they weren’t discussing something that was tearing him up from the inside.

‘I want to forget.’ He confirmed, another step, and she smiled up at him, a smile that he had seen when they had been in the house, once she had stopped crying. A final acceptance, a sense of peace. She wouldn’t hurt him.

‘Does John know?’ The mention of his friend, the man Eurus had tried to kill, had Sherlock recoiling slightly. Brilliant, her mind, it worked faster than his could ever hope to, and she had already got the answer before he could school his expression.

‘So, nor does Mycroft.’ Trust. It was something he didn’t give, not usually, but with the sirens going off in his head, warning him that his Mind Palace was being attacked, Sherlock gave it to her. One last step, hand against the glass, mirroring her.

‘Let me in, brother.’ And Sherlock did.


	2. Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eurus knows, John and Mycroft are worried, and Sherlock is sick

It was impossible. Yet here she stood, firmly placed inside his Mind Palace, and Sherlock wondered if he had always been this far behind in intellectual capacity. Eurus turned, admired the sirens that were going off, the way his mind was jumbled and confused. Without waiting for invitation, she took off in the direction of the staircase, to the darkest parts where Sherlock kept Moriarty hidden.

‘You know, it took me a while to figure it out.’ Eurus remarked, Sherlock striding beside her, trying not to think about what she was talking about. If it had taken her a while, then Moriarty must have been a good opponent. All this planning, scheming, he was tired. Exhausted, his mind fragile, and now the woman who had almost had him kill either John or Mycroft was walking around inside it, seeing what he tried to keep hidden.

Mycroft. The thought of his brother, the smarter one of the two, although Sherlock wouldn’t admit that, had his body faltering mid-step. Eurus didn’t pause, not until she reached the cell. Moriarty was inside, locked away safely, Eurus tracing the edge of the jail like she could see inside it.

‘Why don’t you tell Mycroft?’ Feelings, again unwelcome, came flooding in. He knew she could recognise them, the shame, guilt, embarrassment at not being strong enough. Mycroft had been the big brother, the one with all the answers, the favourite Holmes child. Sherlock couldn’t tell him his secret, couldn’t be seen to be that weak.

‘I think the bigger question, is when did this become an issue.’ Her voice was accompanied by the world shifting, back to the room where Sherlock chose to raise the gun to his chin, rather than kill either of them. He watched his brother, his friend, holding the memory cautiously. It burned, watching it, because he knew he had every intention of following through. Of shooting himself, ending all this.

‘How do you do it?’ He repeated, the only words he seemed able to procure, and Eurus turned to look at him. All that brilliance, he could see it, burning behind those eyes that haunted him.

‘You could too, Sherlock.’ Something was wrong, his body was moving, something was happening outside the Mind Palace. Eurus was starting to fade, and for some reason, he had an urge to fight against the slipping sensation, to try and stay by her side. Then Moriarty’s cell shuddered, and he couldn’t keep himself sane anymore, felt his world going blank.

**

‘Has he said anything?’ John Watson strode beside Mycroft, who was currently the angriest John had ever seen. Spying on Sherlock wasn’t a new thing, he had long since known that Mycroft kept tabs on the Detective, but John watching it? He was shocked, if he was being honest, to see so many emotions cross Sherlock’s face. Emotions he had never seen before, like Eurus had brought them out, like she was picking him apart.

The nurse in front of them shook her head, looking terrified at Mycroft’s scrutiny, but John knew that the Holmes wasn’t focused on anyone but his younger brother, on the other side of the door. When Mycroft gave the order for Sherlock to be pulled from the room, they found him in a trance. At least, that was what they had called it, even though John and Mycroft both knew it was probably the Mind Palace. The question was, what did Eurus know about Sherlock that they didn’t?

‘Excuse me.’ Mycroft stepped past, John shooting the nurse an apologetic glance, before following the man inside the room. For a moment, he just took in the sight, then focused. His friend was seated on the hospital bed, having pulled most of the wires that were supposed to be connected off of him, looking out the window. As soon as Mycroft stepped in, Sherlock turned, face as blank as it usually was. Nothing, no evidence of anything that had happened down in Eurus’ prison. Mycroft must have come to the same conclusion, opting for the talking rather than deducing.

‘Brother…’

‘Right, now that you’re here, I’m leaving.’ Evidently, it was not the first time that Sherlock had tried to escape. He stood, and even John saw him wobble slightly, gripping the jacket from the chair and pulling it around his shoulders. Mycroft stayed still, until Sherlock walked towards the door, a hand reaching out and resting against Sherlock’s chest. The Detective flinched away, John watching the interaction but staying silent.

‘Sherlock. What is it?’ For a moment, John thought Sherlock might actually tell them. But, just like he had seen many times, his expression went lax, body stiffened up.

‘Greg has a case for us. Hurry up.’ The words were aimed at John, Sherlock brushing past both of them and walking out the door. Except there was an issue with the sentence, he had called Lestrade Greg, his real name, rather than one of the many other names he usually used. One thing was for sure, Sherlock wasn’t alright. Mycroft sighed, looked across at John, his frown increasing.

‘Keep an eye on him.’ The other Holmes stalked out, and John fought the urge to swear, instead opting to follow Sherlock.

**

Sherlock regarded the Police tape, ignoring the warning it gave and ducking under. A couple of people looked across, but he didn’t pay them attention, walking into the house and finding Lestrade, standing over the body of a woman.

‘Afternoon. Sorry for calling, but…’

‘Who is she?’ Sherlock asked, cutting the man off, but Lestrade didn’t seem surprised. All Sherlock wanted to do was focus on the case, ignore the headache that was gradually building, the pressure inside his mind that felt like it was going to explode. John caught up, greeted Greg, before he finally answered his question.

‘Evelyn Carter, 34, found this morning at 10:09am by the cleaner. No signs of forced entry, nothing picked up on the security tapes outside. No witnesses as of yet.’ Sherlock was already off, walking across to the far end of the room, turning to study the dead woman. Blood splatter up the walls, consistent with a slashing wound. He forced himself to focus, took in every detail he could.

A missing ring on her finger, a chipped nail that had paint flecks under it, but not from her own varnish. A lock of hair missing, bruising around the ankle consistent with an attempt to stop her crawling away. So, he turned to the door, looking at it. She’d let the murderer in, knew the person well, had stopped to make them both drinks. The glass was on the side, washed, but the other was missing. No doubt taken, whoever had done this had planned it.

He hadn't realised what he was doing until it was too late, his hand pinching his nose to try and stop the headache that threatened to expose him. Both John and Greg were staring at him, one of them had just asked if he was okay, and Sherlock was pretty sure he was going to be sick. That didn’t happen, he didn’t get ill, but he could feel it. That same darkness, the thing he felt when Eurus found out his secret.

‘I’ll text you.’ Was what the Detective offered, stalking back out of the room, wondering how on Earth he was going to convince Mycroft to let him go and see their sister again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming tomorrow, thanks for the Kudos and Comments! :)


	3. Mind Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs to see Eurus in, especially when he explores the Mind Palace

Sherlock paced the room, ignoring the fact that John was staring at him, waiting for his brother to appear. They were in the flat, newly painted and renovated since the bomb, and Sherlock was pretty sure he was going to wear away the floorboards at this rate. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to do this, perhaps plea to the fact that his brother had kept her a secret? Play the guilt card? Did Mycroft even feel such a thing? And, more importantly, why was Sherlock starting to feel all these things that he hadn't before. A quick glance inside his Mind Palace showed the same disarray that Eurus had been trying to help him sort, the sign that Moriarty was here.

He paused, thinking to the cell in the depths of the lower level, disturbed to find the place disturbed. Not how Eurus left it, it seemed eerily dark, the Detective slowly walking through the level. His Mind Palace was always a place of sanctuary, a space where every thought was catalogued and stored, kept safe away from the outer world. It kept his mind sane, made sure that emotions were kept separate, but the damage seemed to be stopping that from working. The further he walked from the staircase, the closer he got to Moriarty’s cell, the more his footsteps echoed. Down here, the only light came from the stairwell, and even when he reached the cell, with its own light source, it wasn’t that bright. Probably why he missed it the first time, only noticing when his fingers ran over the lock. His heart froze, not a good thing when he was in the Palace, staring at the opened padlock.

Impossible. Very impossible, but clearly not, Sherlock slowly opening the cell. On the floor, the straight-jacket and manacles that had kept Moriarty bound. It was a mess, scratches all across the walls, words written in blood that he didn’t want to think about, the memory shuddering inside his head, threatening to burst out. His panic was increasing, that was evident from the sirens that were getting louder, from the pounding in his head.

‘Sherlock!’ That was odd, Mycroft shouldn’t be down here, and where was he? Sure, Mycroft had his own space, but Sherlock made sure to keep that separate from where Moriarty was, there were things that couldn’t be discussed. Sherlock turned, trying to locate the voice, then realised it must be coming from outside the Palace. The Detective looked to the empty cell, swallowed heavily when he thought about the implications, and decided he would play whatever card it took to get back on Sherrinford, to see his sister again.

When he pulled himself out, Mycroft was in the room, a deep frown on his face. John looked equally worried, kneeling in front of him, and Sherlock realised he was on the floor. Slightly awkward, he stood up sharply, John giving him one of his many looks and sitting back on the sofa. His heartrate was still high, blood pressure creeping up as the issue in his mind affected him, and he was hesitant to look to his brother in case Mycroft could read too much in his expression. Luckily, his brother looked blank, confused perhaps, and Sherlock stormed ahead.

‘I’d like to go back to Sherrinford.’ He needed to go back, couldn’t risk going into the Mind Palace now that Moriarty was free, not when he didn’t want to face the memory he thought he had locked away securely. Mycroft looked to John, seemingly having a conversation with the Doctor without moving his lips, before looking back. His face showed the answer before he spoke.

‘I’m not quite sure that’s the best thing, Sherlock. Since our sister’s… incident, you’ve been acting differently.’ Differently was a word that Mycroft used because he thought Sherlock wasn’t capable of the truth, and the Detective didn’t appreciate it. Nor did he want his brother’s opinion on his mental state, not if it led the two of them to piecing together what had happened. That would be… bad.

‘I’m not really asking.’ Sherlock snapped, he’d blame it on the adrenaline coursing through his veins, its effects a lot like the drugs. It made everything clear, for a while, then foggy when he started to withdraw. The adrenaline was stopping the memory from playing on repeat, Sherlock had figured that bit out, and so he needed to get to Sherrinford quickly. To have Eurus explain how to lock it away, to hide it for good. How did normal people deal with these emotions? Too unreliable, messy, causing his chest to heave even though he was standing in the comfort of the recovered Number 221B Baker Street.

His brother looked shocked, like he hadn't expected the rebellion, and even John looked surprised. The look was shared again, and apparently it was John’s turn to convince Sherlock, for he opened in his mouth in a way that suggested he was about to protest. Intervening came naturally, Sherlock shooting him a look that dared John to speak, and the Doctor fell silent.

‘Well, we’ll both be coming with you.’ John bartered, Mycroft sighing and putting his head in his hands.

‘Staying in the Office. I’m going down alone.’ And with that, Sherlock stormed off to put his coat on, hearing Mycroft eventually cave and reach for his phone.

**

He put headphones in, something he usually didn’t dare, let the music take away the madness inside his head. The helicopter landed, and he didn’t waste time, walking the familiar path up to Sherrinford. Mycroft and John walked behind, and although he couldn’t hear, he knew they were talking. Although he had bought his Violin with him, he wasn’t sure he wanted to play her at the moment. It seemed to personal, he wasn’t in the right frame of mind, it wouldn’t sound right.

They split when they got inside, Sherlock taking the route alone down to his sister’s cell, ignoring the men standing outside. He remembered their faces as being the same ones from last time, suggesting that they had been the ones to pull him out of the room. That thought sobered him, the door opening and his sister coming into view. She was seated on the bed, fingers tracing the edge of the violin, not turning when he came in.

‘He’s out?’ Sherlock shuddered, dropped the bag and moved closer to the glass. Emotions were a weakness, always had been, but he couldn’t stop the pain inside his head anymore. The headphones and Violin long forgotten, he reached the glass, hand reaching out without hesitation.

‘Help me.’ Eurus turned, eyes wide and slightly shocked, if he had to guess an emotion. Then she moved, quickly to stand in front, rose her own hand to the glass.

‘Shut your eyes.’ Those words, like a promise, and Sherlock surrendered control yet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always appreciated! I love hearing from you guys :)


	4. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Sherlock, then we see it from Eurus' perspective

This time, he appeared on the main floor, the staircase spiralling in front of him. Eurus looked around, looking more relaxed than last time, and Sherlock hurried towards the basement level.

‘It’s your mind.’ She pointed out, just as he was thinking where Moriarty had gone. It was true, this was his mind, he should be able to control it. But, somehow, he seemed to have lost control over it. For a moment, he considered the drugs, a focus that had helped him see clearly, but he shook the thought away as quickly as it had come. John and Mycroft would never forgive him, and he didn’t want to hurt them anymore.

‘Anymore?’ Eurus questioned, moving past him as they reached the cell. She stepped inside, studying the layout of the place Sherlock kept his worst tormentor hidden, while Sherlock considered her question.

‘I hurt them both. Countless times.’ It was true, now that he thought about it. How had they put up with him? He never listened to Mycroft, had hurt John beyond belief, was one of the reasons that Rosie was growing up without a Mother. Suddenly, the pain radiated out of his chest, and he found himself hunching over trying to stop it from spreading. Eurus was back by his side, hesitantly reaching for him, something that shouldn’t be possible, yet her fingers wrapped around his forearm.

‘Sherlock, breathe for me.’ He had always been the little brother, the one that was too emotional, the one that messed up every time he tried to do something. Even Eurus was better, her brain far too smart to ever do something like this, tearing him apart from the inside.

‘Hurts.’ He gasped, and Eurus wrapped him up, much like Sherlock had done that night in the Holmes household. Strangely, the touch was welcome, and Sherlock clung to her until the pain started to fade.

‘Emotions are messy.’ Eurus deduced, looking over him, and he couldn’t help chuckling at the statement. A smile spread across her lips, the moment preserved until Sherlock was reminded of why they were down here.

‘I just wanted him gone.’ He sounded like a petulant child, having a tantrum because he couldn’t have something his way. But if anyone was going to understand, it would be Eurus, the Holmes child that wasn’t perfect, like he wasn’t.

‘Maybe,’ She paused, showing confusion again, something he didn’t think he’d ever get used to, ‘Maybe you’re supposed to be more emotional.’

It took him a while to understand, but when he did, he squeezed her hand gently. A bridge, of sorts, between the smartest mind in the world, and the normal people. He could understand her, but he could kind of understand the others, with John’s help. Eurus may have been the smarter one here, but Sherlock had the ability to understand the emotions of others, even if he couldn’t understand why he had his own.

‘What if I want to be more like you?’ Without the emotions and messy history that he was trying to escape. Eurus cocked her head to the side, trying to understand what he had just said. Sherlock waited, patiently, thinking of everything that he wished he could forget. Moriarty, his faked death, the moment he had to leave John. Undercover work, the pain of being tortured, of calling out for Mycroft and him not coming. He tensed, pulling back sharply from the Mind Palace, knowing Eurus would be able to see anything he was thinking of in that moment.

**

He found himself against the glass, hand still over hers, yanked it back like it burnt. Eurus was calmer, slowly lowered her hand before turning, walking across to the violin. He didn’t want to play, couldn’t play now, not when his head was like this. But his sister just gave him a small smile, and he realised she didn’t want him to play, she was trying to offer comfort in the only way she knew. The music started, soft and sad, a melancholy tune that had Sherlock slumping down, back against the glass, as tears broke free from his eyes.

Moriarty was running loose in his head, Mycroft thought he was hiding secrets from him, and Sherlock had emotions that he had never felt before, screwing up his mind. The fear of his brother leaving, as soon as he found out the truth about Moriarty, or Sherlock screaming for him when he was alone and in captivity. The less than perfect Holmes child, crying quietly as his sister did everything she could to calm him.

**

Eurus Holmes had waited a lifetime to be reunited with her older brother, hadn't quite believed Mycroft when he told her that Sherlock didn’t remember. Now, the youngest Holmes let her hand move the bow across the strings, eyes shut, trying to play from her heart. She wouldn’t say she felt guilt, because her mind was far too smart, and she knew that, but it was something. Working with Moriarty had been to get to Sherlock, to see her brother, to make him feel what she couldn’t.

But now she knew what the man had done to her older brother, could see it in the way Sherlock cried, tears that spilled down his cheeks and dropped onto the collar of his jacket. She didn’t need to be able to see his face to know that, could tell in the way he was breathing, in the way his mind was a mess. For her, she understood that part. So long away from everything she’d known, flying high with nobody to ground her. Sherlock was the middle-ground, the path between her mind and everything else, and she had a feeling this was the closest she was going to get to love.

Love. A foreign concept, for she had been ready to kill the three men when she brought them to Sherrinford. Even ready to kill Sherlock. The tests had been designed to break him apart, to see how emotions worked, and she had gotten what she asked for. Seeing him smash apart the coffin, something had hit her, and it wasn’t her mind either. Just like Mycroft, she suspected she did indeed have a heart, and also like him, it centred on the being in front of her.

He had been ready to shoot himself. She knew it, had been inside his head enough to tell that it wasn’t always just a sacrificial streak, that it was something far more complex. His mind was breaking apart, the emotions that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend drowning him. She wished she could comfort him, didn’t know how except from to play, found her hand stuttering.

The sound drew Sherlock’s attention, his head snapping to her, eyes widening. She lowered the violin onto the bed, rose her had to her cheek, found it wet. She had cried before, when Sherlock held her in their old house, but this was different. She wasn’t crying for herself, she was crying for him. Hurt, that was what she must be feeling, and her brother seemed to mirror her expression.

‘I’m sorry.’ He said, and they weren’t just talking about the tears, they were talking about everything. Could she say those words? Were they even possible, for someone who could not feel guilt in such a simple way.

‘When you find him, I hope you kill him.’ Hope, another emotion, but the words seemed to work. Sherlock’s expression darkened, and she wished he would speak aloud to tell her what he was thinking, she couldn’t always read him like she could a normal person. Her brother stood, going across to pick up his bag and headed to the door, pausing on the threshold.

‘I’ll come back.’ A promise.

‘I’ll be waiting.’ The reply.


	5. Crashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's getting worse, Mycroft doesn't know what to do

‘Sherlock, I am not letting you leave until you explain what’s wrong.’ Mycroft stood firm, held Sherlock’s gaze, forced himself not to break it. The Doctor was seated in the room, watching the interaction, no doubt judging Mycroft for being so brash. But Sherlock didn’t cry, not like that, and there was something wrong. He was the big brother, this was his job, he needed to know what it was that Sherlock was hiding.

‘Get out of my way.’ Childish, the elder thought, but also defensive. Sherlock’s emotions were always the point that Mycroft could worm in, it was a breach in his usual calmness that allowed the older to look after him. Now, Sherlock looked furious, eyes burning and face angry, and Mycroft probably deserved it. For everything he had put Sherlock through, for everything that had happened because of him.

‘Tell me.’ He demanded, wondering what could be so important that Sherlock couldn’t tell him.

‘No.’ Progress, not denying that there was something he was hiding, a step that he could work with.

‘Why?’ It was sometimes so hard to understand Sherlock, maybe because of the emotions, maybe that was why he needed John. Now, a look of guilt was spreading across Sherlock’s face, something clear enough that he could understand. But why was he guilty? What had he done?

‘Why can you tell Eurus, not me?’ Mycroft was jealous. He knew that, it was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, worming its way up every time Sherlock picked her over him. Maybe this was his punishment, for separating them.

‘Because Eurus isn’t perfect either.’ John supplied, and the look of shame that crossed Sherlock’s face told Mycroft that the Doctor’s assumption was correct. That Sherlock thought Mycroft was the perfect brother, when the opposite was true. The Doctor had spoken to him earlier, told him that Sherlock was softer than he appeared, that he needed Mycroft to be the big brother. That, under the surface, Sherlock craved the closeness that came with family.

He took a risk, reached out to brush his fingers over Sherlock’s arm. Memories of the incident came back, where he had tried to convince Sherlock to kill him over John. When his brother had pressed a gun to his chin, rather than shoot him. Emotions. And Mycroft had felt it too, the need to die to protect his brother, to be the big brother of the group. Sherlock looked to where Mycroft’s fingers were on his arm, almost vulnerable in the way he looked up, eyes wide and confused.

‘You must know that you could never disappoint me, Sherlock. Nothing would shock me.’ There, he looked to the Doctor, who gave him a look that said “yeah, well done, brilliant” in a mocking way, suggesting that Mycroft had done his best. The words seemed to hit his brother slightly harder than he had anticipated, seemed to hurt from the way Sherlock flinched, recoiling away. No, that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He thought to everything he knew, everything he had deduced. It was something to do with Moriarty, something Eurus hadn't known until too late.

‘Can we go?’ Sherlock’s voice was softer, pleading, and Mycroft wanted to shake him. To tell him to speak, that Mycroft was listening, that he cared. He may not be able to show it, but he did care, Sherlock was his family.

‘Please.’ Even John looked shocked, and Mycroft couldn’t refused, backed down.

‘Yes, of course, brother mine.’ He even got a thankful smile in response.

**

Sherlock looked at the laptop screen, trying to understand why he had typed in such a thing to the internet. He must be feeling especially vulnerable, something that wasn’t like him at all. Maybe it was because it was evident that Eurus wasn’t here, that she couldn’t help him find Mycroft. He looked at the results of his search, felt his eyes sting with tears, stood up and slammed the laptop shut. He grabbed his coat, knew that John would be angry that he had left without waiting for him to come back with food and Rosie, but he didn’t care.

He needed to breathe, needed to be away from the flat. He left into the night, walking fast, putting headphones in and trying to ignore the fact that his heartrate was way too high, that he couldn’t shake the thoughts. It took him a while to stop walking, only when he found a bench, sat down and looked out across the road. Mycroft was lying, that was the only conclusion Sherlock could come to, his brother would never forgive him. But what if Mycroft knew how to handle his thoughts? What if Mycroft could tell him how to put Moriarty back in his Cage, and then help him with the thoughts circulating inside his head.

It was the same feeling he got on the rooftop, the same one when he held a gun to his chin. Something that knew life would be easier if he took the step, if he left the ledge, pulled the trigger. It wasn’t healthy, thinking like this, he knew that. Then again, Moriarty had left. And still he was here, haunting Sherlock every time the Detective tried to move on. It was weird, when Moriarty had been alive, Sherlock had forgotten what had happened. He had a case to work on, people to protect, he could forget what Moriarty had done to him.

But now, alone in this empty park, Sherlock couldn’t shake the thought that Moriarty had known what he was doing when he shot himself. Swallowed a bullet. Sherlock reached inside his coat, to the phone he kept tucked away, wondered if now was the time to call John and tell him that he thought he might need some help.

‘Sherlock.’ He looked up, found himself staring into the same maniacal gaze that haunted him, knew it wasn’t real. The Moriarty in his head was finding its way out, seeping into his consciousness, that was why he could see him standing in this park. He lowered his head to his hands, gripped his hair tightly, until he felt it pull some strands out, when he looked back up, there was an older-looking man peering at him, asking if he was okay.

He dismissed the man, standing and moving out of the park, determined to forget. Which meant he needed to go to the place it happened. And then, maybe he would have the courage to do what Moriarty had done.


	6. Deep Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's lost the battle.   
> Warnings apply in this chapter!!!!

The day that Moriarty had ruined Sherlock’s stability, as the Detective had come to call it, was before the incident of Sherlock faking his death. Moriarty had managed to break in to the Crown Jewels, and had tormented Sherlock with his brilliance. And that was what it was, brilliance, Sherlock knew that his enemy had a smart mind, possibly greater than his own. In fact, he was starting to doubt that his mind was smart at all, not with the way he was acting.

That day, they had come back to the moment that Sherlock remembered well, the incident of the pool. Where he thought John was going to die, when he could have lost his best friend, and Sherlock was ready to blow them up. He had come here after, with Moriarty, and the two of them had looked to the water. Now, Sherlock understood the significance, the meaning of water in his life. Deep waters, his sister had said, all his life. Every living memory, every haunting dream. The room was dark, the pool reflecting what little light, and he shut his eyes.

It had been a drug. That was what he remembered, knowing he’d been drugged. His Mind Palace had kicked in, Molly appearing to tell him exactly how the drug would work, John giving his advice on how to combat it, Mycroft informing him of how to handle Moriarty. In truth, Sherlock regretted using them in that moment, because it made the entire thing worse. Like they had seen the moment Sherlock fell to the tiles, unable to move, looking across to where Jim Moriarty was standing, hands in pockets, chewing ridiculously loudly. Behind him, the sniper that would later point the gun at John, threatening everything Sherlock held dear.

The Detective sat at the edge of the pool, looked to the water, wondered what it must have been like for his friend. Did Victor Trevor drown, or did he die from the starvation of being trapped? His mind began to work, the possibilities and numbers and theories. He had seen the well, had been there when they pulled the bones from the bottom. He’d refused to look, knew they’d been sent for data, that they would be able to tell him if he wanted to know. He didn’t, it would make it real.

The Detective opened his coat, took out three objects that he knew would be useful. The first, his phone, the only salvation he had in this moment. He’d had it on the night that Moriarty had taken something from him, hadn't been able to move his fingers. It had been cold, the tile, and he remembered the feeling of the indents on the tile melding with his cheek. Tears, he’d cried that night, paralysed and unable to break free. Even when he’d regained movement, he didn’t use the phone. How could he, knowing that if he called for anyone, they would see him like that? No, he’d hidden that well, burnt the clothes and scrubbed his skin till it was red.

Then he’d jumped off a building. Which led him to the second object, a syringe filled with the drugs that Moriarty had doused him with that night. This option entailed the feeling of helplessness, which Sherlock was starting to feel more and more often. If he did this, stuck it in his arm and let the drug take over, he’d probably die. The chances of him falling forwards, toppling into the water, were a lot higher than falling backwards. Drowning, ironic in a way, deep waters.

The final item was what his eyes drifted to, the 9mm Glock sitting against the tile. He knew what it would feel like, pressing it under his chin, knew how it would feel to be serious about pulling the trigger. He knew what it would look like, could imagine the blood splatter, the damage it would do. It would be painless, something he really didn’t deserve, but it might stop the ache in his stomach. And if he wasn’t here, then there were so many good outcomes. Mycroft wouldn’t have to run around after him, picking up the pieces of Sherlock’s every failure. John could raise his daughter, Rosie, tell her about the man that killed her Mother.

Molly wouldn’t be hurt, wouldn’t have to keep pretending that everything was okay between them. Greg would find someone else to help on cases, wouldn’t get frustrated with how Sherlock never listened to him. Mrs Hudson would have a better tenant, someone that she could be friends with, that didn’t take her for granted. It made so much sense, Sherlock was nothing but a bother for all of them, a stain on their existence. Not smart enough to be good, like Mycroft, not normal enough to do something useful like the others.

Then there was Eurus. The sister he only just got back, the only person that might understand him. But even she was struggling to understand him, he knew that, and if the smartest person alive couldn’t understand him, then what hope was there? His phone bleeped, the screen lighting up, showing him just how many missed calls and messages he had. He wasn’t sure why, not till he looked to the time, realised he had been gone seven hours and thirty-two minutes already, that John must have called Mycroft.

They would find him, and that was a point, how did Sherlock want to be found? He couldn’t make John do that, not again, it wasn’t fair. Mycroft could probably do it, his emotions wouldn’t get in the way and make it messy, Sherlock thought. He traced the edge of the gun, picking it up and testing the weight in his hand. His Mind Palace seemed to be contributing now, the beautiful structure he had built beginning to collapse, Sherlock focusing on the ground floor, right by the staircase that led to every memory he ever had.

Jim Moriarty stood, leaning against one of the rails, that signature smirk on his face.

_‘It’s raining.’_

He flipped the gun over, admired the piece of craftsmanship, knew that there would be hundreds that looked exactly the same. Ordinary. A fitting tribute, to a Detective who never realised how non-special he was until this moment.

_‘It’s pouring.’_

He brushed aside the drug, knew now that it wasn’t how he was going to die. How could he, tumbling into the water with no refuge, breathing in the water and struggling like that?

_‘Sherlock is boring.’_

It was pretty, the water, glistening slightly as he wrapped his hand around the handle of the gun, cocking it in one smooth action.

_‘I’m laughing.’_

Moriarty’s laugh, echoing, bouncing off the walls just as it had when Sherlock lost everything.

_‘I’m crying.’_

His cheeks were wet. He rose the gun, his hand shaking enough that he used a second to support, pressed it under his chin.

_‘Sherlock is dying.’_

Safety off. Finger on the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing from you guys! Thank you for the comments and kudos, tell me what you thought of this chapter! :)


	7. The truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hangs on the edge, and Mycroft's taken a risk

‘SHERLOCK!’ Odd, John’s voice rarely came from the Mind Palace, it seemed to be happening more and more lately. Trust the Doctor to survive, while the rest of his mind collapsed. Speaking of his Mind, he risked a look, studying the damage. The ground floor was where he focused, looked at the towering blocks that had been connected to the staircase, now with gaping holes in them, rubble collecting at the bottom. The towers were breaking, he thought, everything he had worked for dying, just like he was. He heard a faint chuckle, refused to look at the man that it came from, instead wondering where the sound of John had come from.

The voice was more irritating than anything else, Sherlock’s finger hovering over the trigger, before his name was called again. He pulled himself from his mind, flicked his eyes open, surprised to find Doctor John Watson standing on the other side, eyes wide, hand outstretched like he could stop Sherlock from shooting. Behind him stood Mycroft, half turned to the exit, like there was someone else there, but he looked just as shocked. Not shocked, hurt, sad, scared. Emotions, like Sherlock was feeling, showed on Mycroft’s face. If this hadn't been such a bad time to think it, he would almost have laughed at the expressions. But the shock was the main emotion, spread clearly across his features. Honestly, was it that hard to believe? Sherlock had almost died enough times to get fixated on the fact that death would solve all his issues. That it was the end of the line, the last thing he would ever have to focus on.

‘John.’ He replied, found his voice toneless, almost cold. Like the Sherlock before Moriarty, the one that thought he could do anything, could solve anything. He’d been so wrong, he wasn’t going to listen to that part of him anymore, even if it survived his crumbling mind. John took another step, slowly, like he thought Sherlock would trigger-jump if the movement was too fast. The Detective gave his friend a look, one that told him he knew what John was doing, kept the gun pressed tightly under his chin. He hadn't really wanted them here to see this, hoped they’d use some common sense and leave.

‘How about you put the gun down, so we can talk about this?’ Talking. That was the issue, Sherlock couldn’t talk, didn’t even know how to start talking about it. He squeezed his eyes shut, made sure to listen to John’s footsteps to check he wasn’t getting close, heard the panic in his friend’s voice as he called again.

‘You’ve got twenty-seven seconds.’ He knew that voice, opened his eyes to find Eurus Holmes standing beside Mycroft, looking at him with a blank face. Mycroft looked over, and for a second, Sherlock thought his heart might be breaking as well as his mind. His big brother looked confused, lost, like he didn’t know whether he was making a mistake. But then, he bowed his head, took a step back. Eurus was calm, like Sherlock could have expected anything else, moved to the edge of the pool opposite him.

‘Hello, Sherlock.’

‘Eurus.’ He greeted, his sister sitting down, cross-legged like him. She was powerful, but he didn’t have a Mind Palace anymore, she couldn’t help. It was all done too late, he was gone. Her fingers reached for the water, watched it ripple, and Sherlock counted them as he kept the gun tucked, wondering what was stopping him.

‘Would you let me in?’ Her eyes didn’t leave the water, Sherlock’s didn’t leave her frame.

‘I can’t. There isn’t anything left.’ Except Moriarty, standing confidently around rubble, a grin that made his finger tighten slightly.

‘He’s dead, Sherlock.’ Was he? He seemed real, standing in his mind, laughing as the Detective failed to beat him, again. Eurus flicked her gaze to the syringe, and just like that, Sherlock could see her mind working.

‘It’s a neuromuscular blocker, a form of paralytic drug. Atracurium.’ Eurus spoke, and Sherlock didn’t need to confirm it, she was right. Always right. Moriarty had proved that, back in Sherrinford, when Sherlock was beginning to suspect his mind began to break. Emotions, pointless things, look where he was now.

‘I’m presuming this is the one he used.’ Eurus remarked, going back to study the water, before she finally met his gaze. The world shifted, and they were no longer sitting on the pool edge, instead standing in front of one of the cubicles. It took him a moment to realise this was a memory, his memory, could see himself sprawled out on the floor. Moriarty was standing in front, a grin on his face, the sniper standing by the door, face emotionless.

‘Sherlock, he’s dead. This isn’t real.’ Eurus pointed out, but he could see panic fringing her words, could see it in the way he was shaking now, tears threatening to burst again.

‘It hurt.’ He sounded like a child, broken and alone, upset about something he couldn’t change. Eurus looked like she wanted to hold him, comfort him, but she didn’t.

‘Say it, Sherlock. The truth.’ Sherlock sobbed, shook his head frantically. Eurus was pleading, if not with words then the way her eyes looked right at him. He was alone, stuck inside his burning mind, Moriarty was going to kill him. Was killing him, he could still feel his finger over the trigger, despite the fact that he was in a memory. The gun appeared in his hand, and he knew what it meant, that he was close to dying. That he was going to pull the trigger. He rose the gun, pointed it at Moriarty, knew that by shooting him, he’d be pulling the trigger on the gun pressed to his chin.

‘Say it.’ Eurus stated, her voice wobbling half-way through, and he looked back to her.

‘Say it.’ She repeated, and finally he figured out what she was doing, the way she had done it with the other people on Sherrinford. Worming her way inside what was left of his stability, attacking him to his core, and it was working. He tried once, cleared his throat, tried to stop the ache in his chest. If he said it, it would be real. Why was she wanting him to say it?

‘Say it.’ It rang out, echoed in his mind, and Sherlock was helpless to deny his little sister her wish, lips moving before he could even think of the implications.

‘Moriarty raped me.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT ARE YOU GUYS FEELING RIGHT NOW?!?!?!   
> P.s. I'm sorry for doing this to you all :)


	8. Slow steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eurus and Mycroft's POV this chapter

Eurus moved first, ignored the other two as she took the gun, wrapped the blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders. Her brother didn’t move, just stared blankly ahead, letting her move him to his feet. Mycroft looked pale, so pale she momentarily thought he would fall, and John wasn’t much better. With one hand on her brother, she guided him towards the door, glaring at Mycroft when he opened his mouth.

‘He’s in shock, so if you’re going to say something stupid, I suggest you wait.’ That was the end of the conversation, stepping out into the night. The Detective was the first to spot them, the police cars surrounding the building. Too many guns, most of them aimed at her, but she ignored them, led Sherlock towards Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper, knew they could be trusted.

‘We will need transport to 221B Baker Street.’ The Detective opened his mouth, probably to state that Eurus needed to go back to Sherrinford, but Sherlock made his mind up on that front. His arm snaked around her, tugging her closer, and she felt his heartrate pick up again. She wasn’t sure what she would do if her Mind Palace fell, although hers was not a Palace, as such, but still. The point was the same, Sherlock was hurting, and although she couldn’t understand it on the emotional level, this was where she needed to be.

‘Eurus can be returned in the morning, Detective. I’m sure you can accompany us, to ensure nothing happens.’ Mycroft would regret that, Eurus thought, especially when they eventually returned to Sherlock’s home. Police had to wait outside, while the group bustled in, Mrs Hudson asking if anyone needed tea.

Eurus moved Sherlock into the main room, sat him down on the floor, unwrapped the blanket from his shoulders. A Mind Palace was designed to keep him safe, and with it gone, he was vulnerable. Vulnerable, like she had been, flying high when nobody could ground her. The violin sat in the corner, her eyes found it, and she felt that strange feeling in her chest again. Family, that was what they were, and he had grounded her when she’d needed it.

Mycroft was speaking, asking what they should do, asking if they needed a Doctor. The Doctor in the room was protesting, saying that Sherlock needed blankets, heat and to lie down, to alleviate symptoms of shock. Molly Hooper, that was the one Eurus focused on, turning and studying the woman. How painful it must be, to be in love with Sherlock Holmes.

‘The equipment you packed, bring it here.’ Molly looked startled, the others in the room falling silent, but she did as asked. Lestrade was now seated, looking at Sherlock with worry, concern, emotions she could easily identify. Eurus moved, reached for Sherlock’s jacket, felt something spike through her when he flinched. For a moment, she believed she might have been worried, fear that he was scared of her. Then she understood why he had flinched, could almost hear the laughter, worked quickly to rid him of the jacket and to put the device around his arm, clipped his finger to the heart monitor.

‘If it gets too high, wake him up.’

‘Wake him up?’ Molly and John said in unison, looking terrified of her. Eurus didn’t mind, she could understand, but was slightly surprised when Mycroft answered.

‘From his Mind Palace.’ Eurus wondered if it was the age-gap that had prevented her from forming a bond with Mycroft, or if it was the sense of duty that she had never understood. Either way, she ignored the thought, moved forwards and reached for Sherlock. He caught her hand before it touched his head, fear evident on his face, words trembling.

‘Don’t hurt me.’ Eurus stared into bright blue, wondered if she would ever fully understand him, or if Sherlock Holmes would always be the only thing she wasn’t smart enough to understand.

‘Hush, big brother.’

**

‘BP’s normal.’ Molly remarked, Mycroft pacing the room. Sherlock was still, his eyes shut, not moving at all. Eurus was in a similar position, facing Sherlock, fingertips resting on his temple. Whatever she was doing, he hoped it worked, because if it didn’t…

He hadn't known. He prided himself in being smart, in figuring everything out, his ability to understand. But Sherlock had kept something from him, and Mycroft hadn't known. Hadn't shot the bastard, before he could ever lay a finger on his baby brother, on the one person Mycroft should have been able to save. Everything that had happened was on him, he knew that, this was his fault.

‘This isn’t your fault.’ John stated, looking up at him, and Mycroft forced a laugh.

‘Come now, Doctor Watson. I let Moriarty go, even handed him as a gift to Eurus. All of this,’ He gestured, felt his mouth go dry when he looked to Sherlock, to the dried tear-streaks down his little brother’s face. His tone lowered, voice quiet, ‘It’s all on me.’

Why had Mycroft allowed Sherlock to do these things? Why had he encouraged his undercover work, let him be beaten and tortured? Mycroft slumped, back hitting the wall as he slid down, thinking back to the moment his brother had pressed a gun under his chin. He’d failed as a brother.

‘BP’s rising slightly.’ Molly moved closer, although wary of Eurus, and Mycroft found John staring.

‘Can you do that?’ Could he? How was Eurus even doing such a thing, communicating with their brother like that?

‘That should be impossible.’ Greg muttered, staring at the two of them, and Mycroft hummed in agreement.

‘Should, but Eurus… she can do the impossible.’ Could do so many things, was dangerous, yet was helping Sherlock. That was perhaps the only thing they shared in common, the desire to keep Sherlock safe.

‘And Sherlock?’ Molly asked, looking worried. He remembered Sherlock’s words, the _I love you_ that he had spoken, the way his brother smashed apart the coffin. Emotions, and hadn't Mycroft always thought that made Sherlock weak?

‘They’re in his mind. Literally, in his mind.’ Greg muttered, swallowing down the tea like he wished it was something stronger. Molly jumped as Sherlock flinched, Eurus’ face frowning slightly, and Mycroft couldn’t take it. It hurt, seeing Sherlock in pain, knowing he had caused it. Another flinch, Mycroft feeling like the room was closing in, before Eurus opened her eyes. She blinked rocked back, turned. The moment they looked at each other, Mycroft knew he was open to her deductions. Surprisingly, she said nothing, just turned back to Sherlock. A hand to his cheek, something he would almost consider tender.

‘Come back to me, Sherlock. Back to us.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions? Fluffy stuff between the Holmes boys coming up!


	9. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally talks to Mycroft, but they both seem to be struggling with words

It was close to burning, but he didn’t turn it off. It felt nice, the hot water rushing over him, something different from the cold he had felt for weeks, ever since the discovery of his sister and the loss in control of his mind. Now, with his head resting against the tiles, he thought about everything that had happened. Everything that his brother and best friend knew.

His mind was calm, the buildings that he thought tumbled were standing, neat and clean and as perfect as ever. Moriarty, or what was left of him and the awful memory, tucked neatly away back in the basement. He wasn’t sure how, or why his mind was suddenly so peaceful, but he was planning on enjoying it. Eurus had left, had walked him to the shower and taken one last look at him, a smile that was shared, before she left. The sirens outside had faded around ten minutes ago, meaning she would be on her way back to Sherrinford.

When the water ran cold, he stepped out, gripped the towel and dried himself down. The mirror had fogged, enough that he had to reach across and wipe it with his hand, surprised by his reflection. He looked pale, like he needed sleep and food, which probably wasn’t a bad idea. He’d brought sweatpants and boxers in, dressed in those, then looked at his bare torso.

It was just John in the flat. Maybe Mrs Hudson. And possibly Mycroft. Of which the chances of him seeing any of them were slim, coupled with the fact that it wasn’t like they didn’t know he had been undercover. The scars were there for a reason, and he remembered each part of it, now reorganised in his mind to stop the pain.

Unfortunately, his bedroom wasn’t empty. Mycroft was seated on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, although he stood up sharply when Sherlock entered. A moment of awkward silence passed, Sherlock looking anywhere but at Mycroft, while Mycroft kept his eyes firmly on Sherlock. The moment was broken when Sherlock shut the door, turned to grab a shirt.

‘I should have pulled you out sooner.’ Mycroft said aloud, while Sherlock firmly ignored the sentence and pulled a shirt on, covering the view from his brother. He turned back, surprised to find that Mycroft looked guilty, like it had been his fault. Strangely, it was the first time that Sherlock felt the need for his brother’s comfort, and that thought was enough to make him shudder.

‘You couldn’t have known.’ A stupid thing to say back, considering Mycroft was one of the smartest people on the planet, who most certainly would have known the risks of Sherlock doing such a thing. His brother sighed, sat back on the bed, and it was then that Sherlock realised he wasn’t wearing his normal attire. Just a loose shirt, jeans that didn’t quite fit. Almost casual.

‘Eurus is on her way back to Sherrinford.’ They were side-stepping around the real issue, the one that involved the pool and the gun that Sherlock had been ready to fire. Sherlock took a seat, with enough distance between them so that it didn’t look like he needed comfort. He hadn't in so long, why was he starting to feel like this now? Why, when all this had happened, did he still feel the need to prove himself to his older brother.

‘Thank you.’ For letting her come and save him, for not judging him, for not leaving him the moment he found out what Moriarty had done. Mycroft’s head snapped in his direction, a look of utter disbelief, and Sherlock fought the urge to hide from him.

‘Why… why are you thanking me?’ Now Sherlock was confused, face scrunched up, trying to figure out what Mycroft meant.

‘For not leaving, of course, I thought that was obvious?’ He wished he hadn't said it, because the moment he did, Mycroft’s face went pale, eyes widening, almost like he had been hurt by the words that Sherlock had said. But that would be impossible, it was Mycroft.

‘You thought I would leave?’ Despite the beauty of his Mind Palace, and the sirens that were no longer blaring, he still appeared to have an issue with crying. Like now, his eyes were filling, even though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Yes, he had thought Mycroft would leave. Sherlock had thought that was the only obvious thing about this scenario.

‘I think, for two people like us, we aren’t being very smart.’ Mycroft eventually said, looking right at him, while Sherlock looked back. He was careful, even if his brother seemed to be fine with this change in dynamic, Sherlock didn’t think he could handle it if Mycroft rejected him. Slowly, until he was close enough to touch, and the younger risked it. A hug, let his head fall to his brother’s shoulder. The moment he did, arms wrapped around him, held him close like Sherlock had done to Eurus, and he let go of the self-restraint, tears starting to fall.

‘It’s alright, Sherlock, I… I’m here now.’ And if he hadn't been crying his eyes out, Sherlock would have found the sincerity in Mycroft’s voice amusing.

**

Mycroft watched warily as John entered the room, wondering if it the Doctor was going to say anything. Instead, John looked to Sherlock, a slight smile spreading on his face. He moved quietly, placed down a mug beside Sherlock’s bed, nodded to it as if it was meant for him. The Doctor then turned, walked back towards the door, and Mycroft realised it was for him. That Sherlock’s friend was being nice to him, as well.

‘Thank you, John.’ It was odd, the name on his tongue, but he didn’t take it back. John just gave a smile, and maybe the Doctor wasn’t so bad, he certainly seemed to be good for Sherlock. Speaking of, his little brother was currently fast asleep, head tucked under Mycroft’s chin, arms wrapped around him. Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he had been this close to Sherlock, no doubt when they were children, before any of this ever happened.

Moriarty. Before Moriarty had ruined his baby brother, driven him half-mad. Mycroft felt the rage, the uncontrollable anger, the wish that he could kill the man himself. Instead, he wrapped his fingers into the dark curls on Sherlock’s head, surprised by how soft they were. When Sherlock woke, they would try and sort this. Mycroft would try and sort this, would be a better big brother, like he should have been all these years.


	10. BOOM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case

Sherlock jumped when the door was thrown open, cocked his head as a three armed men entered the flat, followed by a man in a suit that was probably worth more than the ones his brother opted for. John squeaked, clutched at Rosie, while Mrs Hudson came in with a frown, taking the child from John’s arms as the suited man looked to both of them. The flat had been empty for a while, visitors had stopped after Sherlock’s incident at the pool, and it was slightly odd to have it filled again.

‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, your presence is required.’ The suited man looked between them, while Sherlock began to run deductions. The suit implied a high-end job, the guns a standard issue for MI5, which begged the question, why was Mycroft not the one requesting his presence? He had seen very little of his brother in the two weeks since Sherlock’s breakdown, and he missed him. Or, at least, he figured that was what the ache in his chest was.

After that night, the one that Sherlock had spent crying, Mycroft had been defensive. Had stated that he was needed at work, that there was something he couldn’t avoid. Sherlock didn’t mind, he had things to sort, like understanding his new Mind Palace. The amount of times John had snapped at him for going into the Palace at random points, like half-way through a conversation, was unbelievable. Still, things between him and John were getting better, although they didn’t bring up what Sherlock had admitted at the pool.

They had, however, brushed upon his undercover work in Serbia.

‘I’m sorry, who exactly wants us?’ John was acting on the defensive, having stopped Sherlock from going on cases on the past two weeks, telling him that he needed to rest. Sherlock didn’t really mind, found that it was John’s way of caring, and he quite liked it. That, and Rosie was a good person to listen to his music, he’d been composing a piece that needed someone to judge it. For a child, she had quite a lot of expressions, and he was becoming familiar with what each meant.

‘Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II. It’s a matter of national security.’ John went pale, Mrs Hudson hurried to get Rosie out of the way, promising to look after her while they were gone.

‘Well then, let me get my jacket.’ Sherlock remarked, looked to his friend with a grin. A case, at last.

**

Too many people with guns, Sherlock thought, striding down the darkened corridor with John by his side. It hadn't been a long journey, they were still in London, although the cars had been blacked out entirely, so they couldn’t see where they were going. All this secrecy, Sherlock hated it, knew all it took was a smart mind to crack apart a building such as this.

The room opened up, more men in suits, and Mycroft with them. He looked tired, bags under his eyes and stubble along his jaw, a harrowed look that made Sherlock frown. They made eye-contact, long enough for the younger to figure out Mycroft didn’t want him here. Possibly why his brother had been ignoring him for the two weeks, Sherlock was beginning to realise that this might be bigger than he first anticipated. Well, there was nothing like getting thrown in at the deep end, excusing the pun on deep waters yet again, his mind supplied.

‘We agreed not to bring him in!’ Mycroft hissed, evidently the man that had collected Sherlock was familiar with the older Holmes, as was shown in the sympathetic glance. Another man stepped forwards, holding the presence in the room, Sherlock already beginning to scan him. Ex-military, a tough expression that was probably due to the loss of his wife, indicated by the fading tan lines where a ring would sit, now on a chain around his neck. Not anything he needed to do, he was just enjoying having his mind back on par with the rest of him.

‘Dr Watson, Mr Holmes, have a seat.’ A deep voice, one that Sherlock ignored, opting for standing. Sitting implied he was going to agree to whatever this was, and he hadn't agreed. Not yet, although the thought of a case was getting the adrenaline pumping. John sat down, close enough to Sherlock to be reassuring, and Sherlock risked another glance at Mycroft. His brother wasn’t looking his way, instead down at the table he was in front of. If Sherlock hadn't have known better, he’d have said that his brother looked like he was regretting this job altogether. People took their seats, obviously realising Sherlock wasn’t going to, and too scared of whatever the subject was to ignore the man.

‘Mr Holmes, I am the Director General for MI5, and as such, I request your confiedentiality on the matter we are about to discuss.’ A matter of such importance, Sherlock was already running things through his mind, politics and wars and terror attacks that had happened recently, trying to think of what could possibly require his presence, rather than Mycroft’s.

‘He understands.’ John stated, knowing Sherlock would never agree to such a thing. The Director gave a brief nod, sliding forwards a piece of paper, what appeared to be a contract.

‘You have permission to take the rest of your little… gang, from their jobs. Fully paid, of course.’ John flicked the paper, the faces of their friends appearing. Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade, now Sherlock really was struggling, why did they need them? Sherlock’s mind wasn’t aided by them, John, sure, but not the other two.

‘We’ve been told you’re the best.’ Mycroft certainly wouldn’t have said such a thing, which led Sherlock to only one conclusion.

‘Why did she send you to me?’ Eurus, the one they went to when they had very big issues, like the last terror attacks. And if Eurus couldn’t solve it, then why had she sent them to him? Mycroft looked ready to pass out, Sherlock making a note to look after him more, after complaining about being kept out of the loop. However, it did clear up the slight issue about why Molly and Greg were involved, Eurus wanted Sherlock safe, presumably. A way of saying that, although she didn’t understand the emotions, she could understand why Sherlock needed them.

‘She?’ John questioned, before understanding dawned on his face, quickly replaced by confusion.

‘Eurus Holmes believes you the only capable person of solving this case, Mr Holmes, and assured us you would need your… friends, to do so.’ Sherlock looked back down to the page, to where the amount of money they were willing to pay was written down, and he had a distinct feeling he was not going to like whatever they were about to show him.

‘Continue.’ Sherlock stated, looking to the Director, who actually looked apologetic.

‘We’ve had multiple reports of a wanted person appearing, facial ID confirming their status. We’ve been chasing them for the past three weeks, before they left a message for us.’ A wanted person? Sherlock looked past the Director, to the screen he had turned on, and felt all the blood drain from his body. John swore, yet nobody disciplined the Doctor, not when attention was focused on the screen.

Impossible. It was impossible.

_‘Well hello there, Sherlock, it’s been a while. Ready to come and get me?’_

Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, bam, poor Sherlock. Poor Mycroft


	11. Did you miss me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's thinking

‘The work in Serbia deduced that Moriarty had connections worldwide, but after spending the time dismantling it, there appears to be only four logical conclusions as to where he would go to recover from this event. The timing suggests he knew that we had been to see Eurus, and that he expected a different outcome, fear of Mycroft perhaps.’ Sherlock paused, twisted so he could look yet again at the photo stuck to the wall, to the face he had been waiting to pop up for so long. Now, standing in front of it, knowing Moriarty was back?

‘Sherlock, maybe you should take a break.’ That wasn’t John’s voice, so he presumed it was either Molly or Greg, who had both been filled in on the need to find Moriarty. Mycroft was in the corner of the room, standing, arms crossed and face blank.

‘The best lead we have is one running in Argentina, a connection to an ex-military organisation that Moriarty used to hire the snipers used at the Fall.’ When he’d faked his own death, which was seemingly important now that Moriarty had done it too. Jim Moriarty had known he faked his, so why had Sherlock presumed the man would not do the same? A lack of observation, on his half, he was sure.

‘Sherlock.’ That was John, and the Detective listened, turning to face his friend. John was standing, between him and Mycroft, a look that could only be concern spread across his face. Sherlock didn’t need to run deductions on his friends, especially not John, he could usually figure them out based on everything he had stored in his Mind Palace. This was the face John pulled when Sherlock was either lacking sleep, food, or he needed a shower. Possibly all three, he wasn’t sure how long he had been talking for, or staring at the picture.

‘You’re right, we’ll take a break.’ If anyone was surprised that he understood what John was asking without speaking, they didn’t say anything. Lestrade excused himself, said he would be back in the morning. Molly offered to take Rosie, if John needed the time, and he accepted with a thankful smile to the woman. Sherlock remained frozen, staring at the picture on the wall, thinking.

‘Night, Sherlock.’ Molly said softly, and he turned to say the same, moving to kiss the top of Rosie’s head before she left. He was quite fond of her, the daughter of two great people, she would be incredible when she grew up.

‘Good night, Molly.’ There, that was polite, and with that, he turned back to the image of Moriarty. Interesting, that Eurus thought he could do this, implying that he had the information he needed to start the investigation.

‘Do you want me to cook?’ John asked, and Sherlock quickly stated that they could get a takeaway, walking towards his mobile.

‘You never call them.’ John said, staring at Sherlock like he had grown a third head, and the Detective realised his mistake. He drew his hand back, left the phone where it was, and decided it was time to take a shower.

**

‘The plane leaves tomorrow. You know I’m not allowed to come with you.’ Mycroft remarked, almost looking annoyed by the fact. Sherlock, who had a mouthful of Chinese, didn’t respond. His brother didn’t need to come to Argentina, he would be of little help unless Moriarty was stupid enough to be at the easiest location that Sherlock could think of.

‘We’ll keep you updated.’ John stated, a tone that told Sherlock he should have said something, but there was nothing to say. Not anymore. Surely Mycroft, of all people, understood the benefits of a fully-functioning Mind Palace? They did not need to talk, Sherlock had every response his brother could give catalogued in his mind, knew what his brother would say before he even said it.

‘Sherlock, Mummy wanted to talk to you, before you left.’ Ah, yes, their parents. He hadn't spoken to them since the Christmas period, where they had gone to see Eurus. Speaking of, his violin was still in the room, untouched for a while, since he had been composing with just him and Rosie in the flat.

‘I’ll call them at some point.’

‘Sherlock.’ Mycroft warned, their Mother was never fond of being ignored by either of them, but Sherlock didn’t really care at this moment. He had bigger issues, like Moriarty, or his sister’s insistence that she wouldn’t help. Why? Another game? Could he really trust her? Of course he could, he shoved the thought down as quickly as it had surfaced, looked to the wall.

If Moriarty was back, then that meant there was a new game to play. And a new game meant a new set of rules, new stakes, new things he had to understand. He thought back to everything he knew, including a slightly unwelcome thought of Irene Adler. Who was dead. That one he knew, because he had been there when it happened. She thought him a saviour, and Sherlock had known in that moment she had been on Moriarty’s side, just because she thought he would survive, not Sherlock. Maybe he should have saved her, because she might have been useful in this moment.

‘Well, I’ll be at the runway in the morning.’ Mycroft stood, came across to him as if he were going to hug, like normal brothers would. Sherlock didn’t take his eyes of Moriarty, and eventually Mycroft sighed, moved away from Sherlock. A silence descended in the flat, until eventually John spoke up.

‘Are you alright with this?’ Truthfully, he knew the adrenaline was keeping him safe. That when he found Moriarty, and he solved this case, everything would come rushing back. But for now, he was wrapped up in the endless possibilities, and that was enough.

‘It’s a Case, John, it’s what we do.’ We, because Sherlock did not want John to think he didn’t appreciate what he was doing. The Doctor shook his head, perhaps with disappointment, before moving away in the direction of his room. Sherlock hesitated, before walking across to the Violin case, taking her out and moving back to his spot.

_‘Aren’t ordinary people adorable?’_

To understand someone like Jim Moriarty, Sherlock had to drop the emotions. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, he mused, it was what Eurus had done, what Mycroft did. And they seemed to be doing a lot better than him.

_‘Honey, you should see me in a crown.’_

All this, to hunt him down. The chase, something Sherlock had always enjoyed, yet this time there were people in danger. After all, had that not been why he fell from the roof. To save John, to save Greg and Molly and Mycroft? Moriarty didn’t have those, he didn’t see ordinary people as important. He used them, manipulated them, got what he wanted and then broke them.

_‘Did you miss me?’_

Of course he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what are you guys thinking? Worried?


	12. It's a game!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock really isn't lucky.

Mycroft was standing on the runway when Sherlock arrived, ignoring his brother in favour of looking at the plane. This was it, the craft that would take him in search of Moriarty, the very next step in the chase. Adrenaline was flooding his system, the high something he could never replicate, even with the normal cases he worked.

‘Good morning, Mycroft.’ John greeted, stopping beside his older brother and waiting. Molly stepped out next, Greg following, and Sherlock knew they were worried. What they were doing was dangerous, even if they were being paid more than they earnt in a year, without tax, to follow him.

‘Good, Dr Watson, is not the word I would use.’ That sounded like Mycroft, always the negative perspective on things, whereas Sherlock tended to be more realist. The morning was good, for the weather was pleasant enough, and the flight was likely to be shorted than the calculated time. The only reason Mycroft did not agree with the greeting was because he didn’t want Sherlock going, he didn’t think Sherlock could handle Moriarty.

He was probably right.

**

The others were chatting, while Sherlock tried to settle his unease. Something was telling him that this wasn’t right, that there was something coming to get them. He looked around, studied the internal structure of the plane, tried to figure out what exactly he was seeing. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, yet his heart was still racing, and his mind was telling him that something wasn’t right.

‘Sir?’ The flight attendant was standing in front of him, and when had he raised his hand to call her over? He studied the woman, watched her eyes for a moment, before running deductions. His focus ended on her slightly erratic heartbeat, the chipped nail that went against the rest of her personal-grooming habits, and Sherlock sat back.

‘Why have the oxygen tanks been tampered with?’ For a second, pure panic crossed her face. Then she jumped back, towards the booth that she had come from, and Sherlock didn’t have enough time to stop her before she slammed her hand down onto a button on the wall.

‘Sherlock!’ That was John, who had evidently figured out something was going to happen, but Sherlock couldn’t really stop this. The air was changing, turning sickly sweet, and the flight attendant had scampered towards the cockpit. So, as the air began to seep into his lungs, he recognised it as a sleeping drug. Interesting, someone had managed to hijack a British craft, and the likelihood was that they were working for Moriarty.

Molly was already slumped in her chair, due to her stature and the reduced blood in her system, meaning there was less needed to knock her out. Greg was beginning to look worried, eyes finding Sherlock, like he expected the Detective to have the answer. John was standing, wobbling as he reached out for him, and Sherlock was quick to move, grabbing his friend and helping him back into the chair.

‘It’s a short-term sleep-inducing drug, you’ll be fine.’ He assured the Doctor, watched John’s eyes flutter shut. Greg was out as well, slumped over against Molly, and Sherlock finally stopped fighting his body’s commands, slumping down to the ground.

**

The light hurt John’s eyes, burned as he blinked it back. It was a hospital light, that much he figured out almost instantly, the strong smell of both death, and disinfectant unforgettable.

‘Dr Watson.’ He knew that voice, annoyingly, focused on the face of Mycroft, who was standing at the end of the bed. The eldest Holmes child didn’t look very impressed, face stern, although John did note that he seemed slightly pleased that he had woken up. Hey, maybe after all this, John was gaining a second Holmes friend.

‘Mycroft. Where are we? What happened?’ A shadow of pain crossed the man’s face, he stood straighter, adjusted his jacket slightly. John wasn’t an idiot, he had seen this enough to know that Mycroft was trying to pretend the news wasn’t important.

‘Argentina. The plane was brought down at an unused runway, and you were found there.’ Well, at least they were in the right country. John began to sit up, felt his heart fall when he realised that Mycroft was here, not with Sherlock, which didn’t make any sense, unless…

‘Sherlock and Molly Hooper were not recovered.’ He’d known that was coming, but the fact that Molly was gone as well? He was already trying to stand, kicking back the sheets and glad that he’d been left in the clothes he had been wearing.

‘Greg?’

‘Detective Lestrade is awake, much like you. Eager to find both Ms. Hooper and Sherlock.’ John grabbed his boots, put them on quickly, ignoring the pounding headache as he looked to Mycroft to lead them. The man hesitated, reached into his jacket and pulled out… paracetamol?

‘I thought you might have a headache.’ Mycroft didn’t wait, handed them across and walked out, before John even had the chance to wonder if Mycroft was beginning to like him.

**

Water. Why was it always water? Sherlock looked around the space he had found himself in, then to the large TV screen at the end. So, a re-enactment of what Eurus had done to him? He frowned, tested the bonds that were holding him to the chair, before the screen flicked on.

‘Did you miss me, Sherlock?’ That voice, and even though the picture wasn’t of Moriarty, Sherlock knew the exact expression the man would be pulling now. He didn’t reply, again twisted in the bonds, before his voice cam back through.

‘You might want to hurry up, Sherlock.’ The Detective paused, ignored the strange cave-like space he was in, looked back at what the screen was focused on. It appeared to be a tunnel, his eyes focusing on the logo, and he realised that it was a water pipe, one that was based on a time-sequence, seeing as it wasn’t full at the moment.

‘I presume it connects to a lake or other water source.’ Sherlock was almost free of the rope, heard Moriarty chuckle.

‘The bigger question is, who’s in it?’ His head snapped up, looked back to the screen as it shifted, moving to a small section of the tube where two chairs were positioned, facing each other. In one, Moriarty was sitting, in the same clothes that he had been wearing on the night when they had re-visited the pool. A gun in hand, possibly the same one that had shot him in the head, a smile to the camera pointing in his direction.

But it wasn’t Moriarty that Sherlock was focused on. The second chair, bound much like he was, sat Molly Hooper.


	13. Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Sherlock's getting hurt in this, so don't read if this isn't your thing!

‘You can still stop this.’ Sherlock was pleading, mostly because he knew that Moriarty wasn’t going to stop, was fully committed to killing Molly. He could see her, see her face on the screen, the panic on her expression as she tried to break free from the restrains that she had been bound with. It had been four hours since he had woken, three hours and twenty-five minutes since Moriarty had arrived at his location.

‘Why would I want to, Sherlock?’ His tone was calm, like he wasn’t about to kill him, like he wasn’t on tape. Sherlock knew that Molly could see the feed, could hear everything that was going on, but Sherlock also suspected it may be broadcasting outwards. Most likely to Mycroft, to rub it in his face that Moriarty had survived, that Mycroft had let him go, and now he was going to kill Sherlock.

‘Molly’s done nothing wrong.’ Eurus had picked Molly as well, picked someone that she knew would get to Sherlock. That had made sense, but why did Moriarty pick her? John was on the plane, and logically, he thought he was closer with John than Molly.

‘Apart from loving you?’ Moriarty questioned, the knife dipping into Sherlock’s collarbone. So far, blood loss was not his biggest concern. Sure, it was painful, numerous cuts of different sizes, that would definitely need stitches. But, just as before, adrenaline was his saviour. He could not panic, not when lives were at stake, not when Jim Moriarty was standing in front of him, a grin on his face.

‘Why her? I’m sure John loves me, to an extent. Maybe even Mycroft. Why Molly?’ The knife nicked deeper, Sherlock tipping his head back, trying to ignore the pain. This was bad, he was starting to slip.

‘You think John loves you?’ Interesting, Moriarty sounded confused, like he hadn't expected the emotions.

_‘Aren’t ordinary people adorable?’_

‘Yes.’ He didn’t need to question that, he had seen how John was after his death, could deduce that they were strong friends. Moriarty hummed, seemed to turn more to the camera, confirming that it wasn’t just Molly watching this.

‘You love him back?’ Another cut, this time along the line of the sternum, and Sherlock glanced across to Molly. She had gone still, like she was watching and listening to what Sherlock said. He wished he could apologise, try to convey how much he wished she had never met him.

‘Of course.’ Even he was shocked by how quickly the words slipped out, startling the both of them. The knife stopped, the head cocked, possibly concern on his expression.

‘Growing soft?’ Sherlock didn’t answer that.

‘Mycroft, you love him?’ Sherlock didn’t need to wait to answer that one either.

‘Yes.’ Family. Blood. And the fact that Mycroft was there for him, when Sherlock was pretty sure that he couldn’t do it himself.

‘Molly, you love her?’ This had been done before, with Eurus Holmes, and Sherlock had long since realised that Molly came under the bracket that encompassed all Sherlock’s feelings, just like John and Mycroft.

‘Yes.’ The knife suddenly pierced down, right over his heart, and Sherlock bit down.

‘Don’t lie to me, Sherlock.’ He wasn’t lying! The knife dug deeper, his body arching to try and get away from the pain, his vision beginning to blur.

‘I’m not!’ Moriarty’s knife was removed, long enough that Sherlock could regain control of his lungs, forcing air in despite how much it hurt.

‘No. You see, that’s why I chose Molly. She’s like me.’ He snarled at that, glaring at Moriarty, who looked amused.

‘We both love you far too much, Sherlock.’ A knife, pressed to his neck, and he tilted up into it, daring him to slice. Jim looked down, to the line of the knife, let blood bead under it, holding Sherlock’s stare as he pulled it back, licking along the blade.

‘I’d say we had something special.’ A hand on his thigh, Sherlock wondering if that was Moriarty’s plan, to repeat his past torture method. If so, he wished they would not watch, did not think he could bare for them to see him like that.

‘I’d agree.’ Sherlock stated, voice dripping hatred, and the other man laughed. He turned, replacing the knife in the bag that he’d brought with him.

‘I heard you were tortured in Serbia. Shall we pass the time?’ He turned, a hammer in hand, head cocked to the side with that dangerous glint in his eyes. Sherlock eyed it up, could see Molly on the screen fighting.

‘How much to free her?’ He was bargaining with the Devil, even Sherlock knew that was stupid, but he didn’t know how long Molly had. Couldn’t risk her being hurt.

‘Everything, Sherlock. You’ve got to give me every,’ he came closer, ‘tiny,’ another step, bending down, ‘little,’ a hand, reaching to cup his cheek, and Sherlock fought the urge to bite at the thumb that ran across his lower lip, ‘thing.’

**

‘I can’t do this.’ Greg looked pale, had from the moment that the broadcasting began. John was beginning to understand why, there was something sick in the way Moriarty moved, in the way he carved Sherlock up.

‘We need to watch. We have to find where they are.’ Mycroft sounded like he was ready to snap, fingers curled tightly, digging hard enough that John was surprised he hadn't broken the skin.

‘You think he’ll slip up?’ Greg sounded like he doubted it, and evidently regretted speaking when Mycroft whirled on him.

‘He HAS to slip up!’ The unspoken bit, the part where otherwise they wouldn’t be in time, was clear. John put a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, was shocked when the Holmes actually relaxed back slightly.

‘Listen, we’re all doing our part here, it’s hard on all of us.’ Mycroft shrugged out of the hold, sat back down and looked to the screen. They were not the only ones that were watching this, they had given some of the top specialists in the world access, to try and find out where Moriarty was keeping the two of them. The only other option, the last resort, was to bring in Eurus, but it was a big risk.

‘Soldiers today.’ Mycroft uttered, the words that John had snapped back at Sherrinford. The Doctor didn’t say anything, looked back to the screen. They could see Sherlock clearly, as well as the screen that Sherlock kept looking to, the one that showed Molly.

‘Why’s he doing this?’ Greg sounded horrified, whether it was because Moriarty was tracing Sherlock’s collarbone, or because of the threat on Molly, John hadn't figured out. They were talking now, audible in the room, they first speech in a while. Evidently, Moriarty had been waiting for Sherlock to break the silence.

‘To hurt Sherlock.’ Mycroft answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. John froze, realised it was, Sherlock had been tortured multiple times now, and Mycroft must have felt like he couldn’t stop it.

 _‘Apart from loving you?’_ John heard Mycroft suck in air, knew what everyone in the room was thinking. All this progress in Sherlock’s emotional range, to be told that this was his fault? How long could any sane man last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions? Poor Molly, poor Sherlock! Thanks for all the Kudos and Comments :)


	14. Deep waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty is being a little bitch, Sherlock's losing his mind

His Mind Palace was helpfully explaining that, although it didn’t feel like it, he could survive with the amount of broken bones he currently had. Four crushed toes, three broken fingers, and Moriarty seemed to be enjoying the hammer far too much. Sherlock, however, was still trying to reduce the numbers in his head, figure out how long Molly had left.

‘I am rather disappointed in you, Sherlock.’ Another hit, this time to his thigh, the trousers had been ripped so that he could see the mottling of his skin, the dark purple bruising forming wherever the hammer came down.

‘Any reason why?’ He gritted out, tasting the metallic flavour of blood on his tongue, wondering how long he had left. If the aim was to kill him, then Moriarty would not have done all of this. Molly’s life still hung in the balance, and Sherlock aimed to solve that.

‘I really did think you’d kill Mycroft.’ He put the hammer down, turned back with a gas-torch, that Sherlock eyes dubiously. It was the opposite of water, he supposed, so it could be worse. A lot worse.

‘He’s my brother.’ Sherlock wasn’t sure why those words meant anything, wasn’t sure why he cared so much just because of that title. Or maybe, it wasn’t that title that made him care about Mycroft.

‘But John! You died for John.’ He did, he remembered the snipers that were going to shoot, couldn’t let John get hurt because of him. The flame flickered to life, Moriarty moving it towards Sherlock’s chest.

‘And the others, of course. Molly. Mycroft. What’s the Detective called?’ Moriarty knew, of course he did, but he was trying to distract Sherlock’s mind from the countdown, trying to distract him from saving Molly. Luckily, with his mind up and running, Sherlock had the ability to do many things at once.

‘Lestrade. Greg Lestrade.’ He thought about all the times he hadn't used the Detectives name, even though he knew it. Why? Did he care that little about the people that tried to help him?

‘Hmm, Greg. Think I could have him as my pet, like you have John?’ Sherlock hissed, whether from the flame currently burning across his third-lower rib, or the fact that he had insulted his friends.

‘John isn’t a pet.’ Moriarty paused, seemingly contemplating, tapping his finger against his lip. It was mocking, and Sherlock hated it.

‘No, so you keep saying.’ The torch came back down, on the other side, and Sherlock felt his sanity slipping back to the Mind Palace. That would have been nice, but Jim was too smart, gripped his face sharply and dug his nails in.

‘Don’t you leave on me, Sherlock. I want you to feel this.’ Another burn, heading towards the belt of his trousers, and Sherlock had finally come to a conclusion.

‘Fifty-three minutes.’ He bit his lip as the flame moved, lifted from his skin, and he could pant out the oxygen he had been holding in. Moriarty turned off the flame, placed it back and crouched down, both hands on Sherlock’s thighs.

‘I’m impressed. You’re almost right.’ Almost. So, plus or minus approximately five minutes.

‘What. Do. You. Want.’ Sherlock forced out, felt sweat slip from his temple, his hair soaked to his head. Moriarty grinned, tapped his fingers playfully, moving them upwards.

‘Let’s talk about Irene Adler.’ Let’s not, Sherlock thought, watching the fingers keep climbing, moving towards his inner thigh. A touch that Sherlock hated, wanted it gone, now.

‘She’s dead.’ And that was his fault, which he figured Moriarty must know, otherwise he wouldn’t be bringing this up.

‘See, a little birdie told me that you were there, Sherlock. That you were there, when she was going to be executed.’ One hand remained on his thigh, the other moved over his bare chest, fingers moving over the muscle with a look of… madness. That was the only thing to describe Jim Moriarty.

‘Stop. Stop it.’ Because he didn’t need to hear this, already knew how the story would end.

‘We all thought you’d save her, Sherlock! Even Mycroft must have suspected it. But you didn’t, did you? You let her head fall.’ Why? Why, in the moment that her life hung in the balance, had Sherlock not saved her? He still remembered it, he could have helped her, he could have tried to save her. But he didn’t even try.

‘Everybody thought it, the great Sherlock Holmes, in love with The Woman.’ Moriarty moved, so he was inches away from Sherlock’s face, fingers digging in dangerously.

‘Tell me, why did you lie? Why pretend to be attracted to such a creature?’ Sherlock held his tongue, eyes studying the darting eyes of Moriarty, the way they flicked back and forth. Jim laughed, stood up and moved across the room, studying the wall as his foot tapped. Impatient, he had been expecting Sherlock to break by this point.

‘Is it because of me? You know, I’m honoured.’ A hand was pressed over his heart, if he had one, and Sherlock swallowed the bile that threatened to spill.

‘You know what they say, Sherlock. You never forget your first.’ Taunting, mocking, and Sherlock didn’t rise. He watched the man for a moment longer, before his head turned to look to Molly. He had to do something, and quickly. Had to get her out of there.

‘Admit it, Sherlock! I know you can figure it out.’ What? What had he figured out? He wanted to scream, to curse and fight and break everything he could, the anger building like it had back in Sherrinford.

‘Let her go.’ Moriarty was laughing, laughing that echoed in Sherlock’s head, and he was going insane. He didn’t care about the pain, couldn’t care less about the broken bones, but he was going to go insane if Moriarty didn’t save her.

‘Tell me why, Sherlock!’ What did he want? Sherlock tried twisting in the bonds, Jim still smiling like they had all the time in the world.

‘LET HER GO!’ He was so angry, blinded by rage, he would rip Moriarty apart with his bare hands if he could.

‘Why?’ That sing-song tone was what broke him, was what cracked through and Sherlock found the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

‘Because I **love** her! I’m **in love** with her!’

Silence. Sherlock froze, recoiled back from the statement like he wasn’t sure what he’d said, cocked his head and tried to figure out where abouts that had come from. His Mind Palace was conveniently quiet, all his thoughts silenced, and he tried to work out what had just happened.

‘You let Irene die, because it was Molly Hooper that you needed to save.’ Jim was back, kneeling now, hands back on Sherlock’s bare thighs where the trousers had split. Sherlock’s mind was empty, blank, he didn’t even know what he was supposed to be thinking anymore.

‘I… you…’ A finger, now pressed to Sherlock’s lips, Jim leaning forwards with that wicked grin creeping back in.

‘It’s okay, Sherlock. I understand how you must be feeling now.’ No he didn’t, Moriarty wasn’t capable of love, just the utter fascination he had with Sherlock.

‘Let her go, please.’ Moriarty hummed thoughtfully, ducked his head to Sherlock’s neck, pressed his lips down over the pulse-point. Irene had done this, once upon a time, and Sherlock had gone blank. Had been lost, no idea what to do.

‘You’ve made your point. Her death would be in vain.’ Sherlock tried, screwing his eyes shut as the lips sucked and bit and nipped at skin, only opening them when Jim pulled back, lips shiny red.

‘Her death would break you, Holmes.’ No it wouldn’t. It couldn’t, he wouldn’t let it. But just the thought of it was speeding his heart up, and Moriarty could tell, looked so pleased with himself.

‘Please.’

‘Begging doesn’t suit you.’ He didn’t have enough time, needed to get out, needed to free her.

‘What do you want?’

‘She’s going to drown, Sherlock. The water’s going to come rushing in, but the chair is bolted to the ground. You could work this out in your head, the volume of the tube, the time it would take? She’d be alive, would feel the water rushing over. Cold, Sherlock, and deep. You’d have to watch, she’d still be expecting you to save her, even as her lungs breathed in water.’ Fingers grabbed his hair, yanked his head to the side so he looked at the screen, at where Molly was still tied, sobbing. He could see blood, from where she’d been straining against the bonds.

‘No.’

‘You can’t save her, Sherlock. She’s going to drown, and you’re going to watch.’

‘No.’

‘And it’s going to be so, so fun to watch.’

That was all that Sherlock could take, and without really thinking, he moved as much as the bonds would allow, leaning forwards to Moriarty’s exposed neck and biting down, as hard as his teeth would allow.


	15. Time's running out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is running out, and Molly is still trapped

If his estimates were right, he didn’t have long. So, as Sherlock pondered on the fact that he had just ripped part of Moriarty’s throat out, he wondered how best to deal with the situation. The other man was lying on the floor, one hand clamped over the wound, the other trying desperately to drag itself towards the bag, where presumably a gun would be hidden. The bonds were still an issue, he wasn’t getting out of them any time soon, not unless he did something… drastic.

His Mind Palace was helpfully providing some context for the situation, telling him that if he didn’t do something, Moriarty would get the gun. And that led him to look across, to where Molly was still tied up, no more than half an hour from her death, maximum. Focus, that was the point here, he needed to focus. His right hand had only two broken fingers, his left had one, but some of the others were swollen and pretty angry looking. It would hurt a lot more to do what he was about to with his left, which might actually benefit, considering how his body longed for adrenaline.

With his mind made up, Sherlock twisted until his thumb was against the rope, praying he just dislocated it, rather than broke. One sharp yank, the bone cracking painfully, and Sherlock left gasping for air despite the fact that his hand was now free. The thumb was sticking out at an awful angle, bruising already forming, and he had very little time to deal with that issue. His mouth was his next best weapon, popping the bone back in place and grimacing as pain yet again flared up his arm.

Now, with one hand free, he had potential. Wriggling, loosening ropes, his left hand beginning to work away until he had both hands free. Then the rope that went around his chest, holding him to the chair. Meanwhile, Moriarty had reached the half-way mark, was reaching out for one of the handles of the bag. Giving up entirely on not breaking anything else, Sherlock yanked his right leg hard, uncaring as the pain threatened to swallow him, helpfully turning off the pain inside his Mind Palace, before returning to the current issue.

It should not have been so satisfying to step down onto Moriarty’s outstretched hand, to hear the howl of pain that came with the breaking of bone. Sherlock really must hate him, for it made a small smile appear on his face, dry lips cracking and tasting more blood.

‘Shh-Sherlock. Please?’ Rasped, broken, blood still trickling from behind the hand that was clamped over the wound. Sherlock was going to leave him, to chase after Molly and leave Moriarty down here, but that was a risk. A risk, because he could come back, and he could hurt her again. So, Sherlock did the logical thing, and took the gun from the bag.

Again, he was surprised by the feeling that rushed through when Moriarty cowered, actually looked afraid. If he had time to analyse it, he might have realised that this felt better than it ever should, that killing him was just aiding the power. He didn’t have time, however, and so he fired three rounds in quick succession, two to the chest, one to the head. He then paused, made sure that Moriarty would indeed die from three gunshot wounds, then looked back to the screen.

Molly. He needed to reach Molly.

**

There were too many tunnels. Even as he headbutted the guard that was trying to explain that he couldn’t open the hatch, that he could flood the entire underground system, Sherlock didn’t know which one she was in. It had taken Moriarty twenty-one minutes to reach Sherlock from where Molly was being kept, and Sherlock knew he had walked, because his shoes contained the same sediment as the screen showed. Adding on time for the fact that Sherlock had broken toes and extreme blood loss, he didn’t have any time to pick the wrong tunnel.

He did, however, have time to reach an oxygen tank and mask, hauling them up onto his back and wincing in pain as his chest screamed at him. Even his Mind Palace could not block out so much pain, not when he was this close to… well, dying? He walked down the tunnel, bordering on running, knowing that more blood was leaking from the wounds and onto the soft, sandy substance that was on the ground. The water must run through a filter, he presumed, which was a helpful analogy if he hadn't been under such pressure.

The tunnel was too long. He had, by his own internal clock, only five minutes to find and save Molly Hooper, and he was beginning to think he had taken the wrong tunnel. That he was going to end up drowning as well, just because his mind had not been quick enough to think. His vision was starting to blur, blood loss never did do well for the brain, and his broken bones were making it very hard to concentrate on walking. Plus, it was very cold. He was shirtless, with his trousers in shreds, shoes gone, bare toes digging into the floor in an attempt to stop him from tumbling.

Light. That was the first sign of hope, light flickering from around the corner of the tunnel. Sherlock held his breath, refused to let his mind blank out just because of the light, refused to believe until he actually saw her.

Molly. He could have cried, in fact, he probably was crying, mostly from the pain, but also from the fact that she was still alive. Alive, and crying like he was, although that stopped the second she looked up and saw him. He must look possessed, broken and hurt, but did that matter? He moved quicker in those last steps than he though possible, diving down to his knees and immediately going for the bolts around her ankles.

‘Sherlock.’ It was breathed out, as soon as he took the cloth from her mouth. He ignored her, couldn’t look just yet, had to get her free. The ropes were harder to undo, and it was then that he remembered one, majorly important thing.

The water. Water, that was going to rush through, knock them flying if he untied them. He looked to her, tried to think of what to do, then made a decision.

‘Molly, I need you to listen to me.’ He’d said those words back in Sherrinford, and she had been crying, much like she was now.

‘Sherlock.’ God, the way she said his name sounded like a prayer. He wanted to say so many things, to apologise for all the times he had taken her for granted, for not understanding her better. He was already unstrapping the oxygen tank, moving it to her lap and beginning to fasten it.

‘Sherlock?’ Now she sounded panicked, especially when he didn’t answer, beginning to fight as he tied down the ankle he had previously released.

‘Sherlock, what are you doing? Sherlock!’ He reached out, ignoring the fact that he was smearing blood on the side of her face, ignoring the pain from the pressure of her cheek against his fingers. She fell silent, eyes widening, and Sherlock was a madman. A madman, with a plan that was going to save her.

‘The water’s going to come, and it’ll be cold. Don’t breath in immediately, wait as long as you can before the first breath. Slow, steady breaths. You have enough for two hours of oxygen, and I suspect Mycroft will only need thirty-seven more minutes.’ He finished tying, reached for the tubing with his free hand and paused.

‘Don’t do this.’ She was begging him, just like he had begged Moriarty.

‘You’re going to be fine.’ He promised her, even though he knew that wasn’t her issue, that it never had been.

‘No, Sherlock, we can do this a different way, we can…’ He pushed the mouthpiece in, firmly, ignoring the hatred that was sent his way and attached the strap around the back of her neck. When the water came, the bolts should hold the chair, and therefore keep her safe. Molly was fighting, trying to shout into the tank, and he was worried that if she kept going, she might use the oxygen up.

‘Molly, **please!** I need you to live, okay? Just live, for me.’ She melted under the touch, even as Sherlock estimated they had thirty odd seconds left, and he wasted them by leaning in to kiss her forehead. He lingered, seconds that he could have spent trying to run, but he wanted to savour that last moment.

‘I should have said it a long time ago, Molly Hooper.’ Maybe it was selfish, making her hear those words, making her live through that pain. But he was selfish, he was going to steal that last moment.

‘I love you.’ He could hear it, the water, and couldn’t make her watch this.

‘Deep breath, Molly. Hold on.’ And with that, Sherlock moved away from her so she didn’t have to watch, held his breath and prayed that Mycroft could find her in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on Tumblr for a while, but I haven't really used it. But I'd love to hear from you guys, so if you want to come and speak to me, feel free! My name's blondemarvelchick, come say Hi! Plus, if you guys would like me to follow, leave your name in the comments or message me, I'm attempting to actually be sociable! :)
> 
> Thank you!


	16. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's alive, Molly's alive

It was bright. That was the first thing he registered, then the fact that he was alive. He promptly took this revelation, rolling over and throwing up all of the water that had found itself buried in his lungs. As his body tried to empty, he realised that his fingers were dug into something soft, a sediment that he recognised from the bottoms of Moriarty’s shoes. Ironic, to think that he was on a lakeshore, somewhere, still alive.

Not for long, though. He didn’t need to look down to know that he had a new injury, probably caused when the water-overflow pipe spilt out into this reservoir. Molly. He needed to get to her, to make sure Mycroft found her. That fuelled him to try and sit up, before his head spun dangerously and he regretted the decision.

**

‘Molly, you can…’

‘No.’ She snarled it, glaring at Mycroft with such ferocity that John winced, looking past her to the bed. Sherlock looked like death itself, the tubes running across his body, and the Doctor found himself tearing up. He had heard what Sherlock had said about him, how he defended him. Mycroft stood in the doorway, obviously shocked by Molly’s determination not to leave Sherlock’s side, looking far too tired to be standing.

‘Hey.’ John greeted her, Molly glancing up quickly before back to Sherlock. The divers that recovered her had called her fiery, fierce, stubborn. John could see it, the usually quiet woman disappeared in the face of almost losing Sherlock. Her hand was resting over his wrapped one, and John found himself thinking back to the moment Sherlock had snapped, then the moment after. He’d looked lost, confused, like he hadn't understood where the words had come from.

‘He’ll be fine.’ The Nurses had confirmed it, said that Sherlock would survive. There would be scars, sure, and John knew that several people had approached Mycroft to suggest that Sherlock’s mind might not be fully… intact, after such a thing. Mycroft, for his part, had ignored them.

‘Molly, you can go and get a coffee. We’ll shout if he wakes up.’ John kept his tone calm, tried not to think too much about how she must be feeling. Alone, thinking she was going to die, having to watch Sherlock cut apart? Then for Sherlock to save her, sacrificing himself? She hesitated, before slowly standing up, hand moving back to her side.

Mycroft stepped out of the way, watched her go, before looking down to the bed.

‘You did everything you could.’ John offered, knowing it was no consolation to the thoughts that had to be racing through his mind. Sure enough, the eldest Holmes just looked at John, an expression that countered everything that the Doctor had said.

‘You do not need to reassure me, Doctor Watson. I am fully aware of my part in this.’ So, back on a surname basis, he could live with that.

**

_‘Mycroft, why don’t you play with me anymore?’ Sherlock looked across to his elder brother, tried to understand how the Mycroft he had known had changed so much. Gone was his big brother, the person he could trust, the one that invited him into his room late at night, would let him cuddle close after bad dreams. This Mycroft, he wouldn’t even look at Sherlock._

_‘You’re not like us, Sherlock. You’re… ordinary.’ It was spat out, like it was a bad thing, and Sherlock frowned. He knew his brother was smart, very smart, but Sherlock wasn’t stupid, was he? And who was the other person that Mycroft was talking about?_

_‘Then teach me.’ Sherlock just wanted to be closer, to spend more time with Mycroft. His Mummy told him there was nothing wrong with being slightly more emotional than his big brother, but right now, he would trade it all just for Mycroft to include him again. The taller man turned, and Sherlock recognised anger on his face._

_‘This is all your fault, Sherlock!’_

_**_

‘Sounds like Mycroft.’ Sherlock looked across, from the room he was standing in to the doorway, where he was surprised by the face he saw. Mary leant against the doorway, looking just the same as she had on the day that Sherlock had gotten her killed.

‘I presume I’m not dead.’ This was his Mind Palace, and although he wasn’t sure why he had been watching a memory of him and Mycroft, he did know enough to be confused when he saw John’s wife standing in this room.

‘Of course not. Your body is keeping itself shutdown, trying to recover from the trauma.’ Interesting. Which meant that the moment on the sand, the one where his lungs spilled everything out, was real. That linked his brain back to the issue that his conscious mind had provided before he passed out, Molly. He didn’t know if Mycroft had found Molly, didn’t know if she was safe.

‘Careful, Sherlock, your heartrate is picking up.’ He ignored her, trying to pull himself free from the Mind Palace, finding it almost impossible to do. It hurt, ached everywhere, it felt like he was drowning in his own mind.

‘Mycroft was wrong, Sherlock. You aren’t ordinary, and this certainly isn’t your fault.’ He would be inclined to disagree with both of these facts recently, pushing free from the room that held him back.

**

Breathing hurt. He forced his eyes open, could hear people talking around him. It was John, he recognised the feel of a hand over his, watched in blurry motions as the man reached out to ring a button. Presumably, he was in a hospital. But he didn’t care about that, he needed to find Molly. He was struggling, trying to move.

‘We’ll have to sedate him.’ Someone’s words filtered through, as did Mycroft’s response, telling them exactly where they could shove the needle they were walking towards him with. Mycroft was here, he hadn't left Sherlock, was looking at him with a pained emotion as Sherlock continued to fight against John, lips not moving yet.

It was hard, why was it so hard? He just needed to know if she was alive, had to know that this hadn't been in vain. That killing Moriarty quickly had been the right thing to do, rather than tearing him apart, piece by piece.

‘Sherlock, you’ve got to calm down, c’mon Sherlock.’ John’s voice, under any other circumstance, would be enough to calm him. But it wasn’t now, because Sherlock didn’t think he’d be okay again if Molly wasn’t alive, if she’d drowned in that tunnel. He had trusted Mycroft to find her, had trusted his brother’s brilliant mind.

‘Sherlock!’ He froze, stopped fighting as he saw Molly come skidding into the room. His eyes flicked to the bandages around her wrists, but she was breathing. Alive. Mycroft had done it.

He turned his gaze to his brother, who hadn't taken a step closer, and Sherlock wondered why. He didn’t want this distance between them, not anymore, he longed for the brother that used to hold him close.

He couldn’t keep fighting anymore, now that he knew Molly was safe, he leant back into the pillows and let his eyes shut again.


	17. Sweet endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settling back into life

The flat seemed rather cold, when Sherlock hesitantly walked in, knowing that John and Mycroft were watching. He stood in the middle of the room, looked across to the wall where Moriarty’s photo was still pinned. It had seemed like a lifetime ago that he had been thinking, planning. Now, the man was definitely dead, Sherlock could still taste the metallic fragments in his mouth. A reminder, of sorts, that he was definitely dead.

It was very anti-climatic, in a way. Sherlock hadn't thought about getting past this point, didn’t think he’d really survive Moriarty’s attack. But here he was, standing back in the room, and he allowed himself to smile. Tipped his head back, let out a brief chuckle at the fact that after all this, he was alive.

**

‘Oh Sherlock, you should have called us sooner!’ He was wrapped up in a hug, winced slightly as his Mummy gripped him tighter than he’d of liked. A kiss was pressed to his forehead, and Sherlock drew back, adjusted his jacket. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the affection, just that it had only been a couple of weeks since the incident with Moriarty, and he wasn’t yet sure he wanted to be touched again. Not yet.

‘Where’s Mycroft?’ He asked, not bothering with the small talk. Mummy rolled her eyes, gestured outside, where Sherlock spotted Mycroft with a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. He thanked her quickly, going to join his brother. Mycroft didn’t turn, didn’t have to, Sherlock moving to his side.

‘Have you forgiven yourself yet?’ Sherlock inquired, staring at the burning end of the cigarette, that in itself an answer. Mycroft breathed in deeply, before plucking it from his mouth and squashing it against stone. He turned, a small smile forming on his lips.

‘The day you stop surprising me, Sherlock, is the day I’ll forgive myself.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes, grabbed his brother and pulled him in for a hug, something he had been doing more and more recently. And, just as always, Mycroft still seemed surprised. Hesitant hands snuck around, to hold him gently, mindful of where his body was still tender.

‘Another surprise.’ Mycroft murmured, close to his ear, and Sherlock smiled at his big brother, pulling away but staying close.

‘You’ll get used to it. I plan on becoming quite ordinary.’ A brief frown crossed Mycroft’s face, before it was replaced with a sad smile. Sherlock would do anything to never see that again, but also knew that it was an almost permanent part of Mycroft.

‘You are many things, brother, but ordinary is not one of them.’

**

‘What do you think?’ Rosie clapped happily in response, a giggle that had Sherlock smiling, tucking the violin back under his chin.

‘You’re right, it needs a little more emotion.’ He played the bar again, before turning to find John leaning against the kitchen counter, watching the two of them. Rosie, ever aware, turned and made grabby hands towards her father, something that was very effective. John never denied her, picked her up before settling down onto the sofa and placing her on top.

‘Again?’ John asked, and Sherlock looked back to the music. His fingers were beginning to cramp, partly because he hadn't allowed them to heal properly before going back to playing the violin. He couldn’t, he needed to hear her play. Both of the Watsons stayed quiet while he played, and when he reached the end, he was rewarded by another clap from Rosie.

‘I prefer her.’ Sherlock remarked, grinning at Rosie, who returned the gesture with a smile that reached her eyes.

‘You two are ganging up on me.’ John complained, frowning down at his daughter who was quick to laugh at his exasperated expression. What a funny trio they made.

**

‘Eurus.’ Sherlock greeted, his sister looking surprised, gaze moving past him to the woman standing behind.

‘Molly, this is my sister, Eurus. I’m sure you remember Molly.’ He gave Eurus a look, one that warned her to be careful, and she did. Standing up slowly, moving across to the glass, and even attempting a smile.

‘I’m glad you’re not ordinary.’ Eurus remarked, and Molly looked slightly startled. Sherlock could recognise it for what it was, a very bad compliment from someone who didn’t know how to give them, but worried that Molly would take offence. Strangely, she didn’t, just gave a small smile back.

‘Thank you.’ She walked across, put down the duffel bag and took out Sherlock’s violin, handing it across before taking a seat. He found himself staring for slightly too long, still surprised with some of her actions, like how well she’d slipped into the role as… whatever this role was.

Eurus loved the new piece Sherlock played, was quick to imitate and copy, adding bits that Sherlock made a note of in his mind, hoping to remember it so he could write it down later. Once they had finished, he found Molly smiling, holding her phone in hand.

‘I recorded it, figured you’d want to add to your work later.’

Yes, Sherlock was quite sure that Molly Hooper wasn’t ordinary.

**

‘This is so exciting!’ Sherlock was basically bouncing around the room, while John sighed and apologised to one of the witnesses.

‘Sherlock.’ He looked across to the Doctor, who had one of those looks that meant Sherlock was probably doing something wrong. He looked around the room, taking in the blood stains and the dead woman that had caught his attention, then back to John.

‘Inappropriate?’ He asked, didn’t miss the slight smile that crossed John’s face as he nodded. He may deny it, but John liked Sherlock’s quirkiness, the Detective knew that. He looked back to the body just as Lestrade walked in.

‘Ready to move her yet? We’ll get the stuff sent up to Molly.’ That had him grinning, a chance to go and visit her was good, he hadn't seen her in three days now.

‘We’ll head across after lunch.’ John stated, seeing as Sherlock didn’t answer, and Greg nodded.

‘I’ve never seen him this happy.’ Greg muttered to John, Sherlock dutifully pretending he couldn’t hear him, nor John’s response of “Who knew all it took was a smart woman”. He didn’t point out that Molly was so much more than just a smart mind, knew it would only reinforce what they were saying. Instead, he moved towards the door, a grin forming as he spoke,

‘Thanks, Glen.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who had read/left kudos and comments! It's been great writing this! :)

**Author's Note:**

> What do you guys think?


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